


The Far and Distant Places

by spinsterclaire



Series: For Imagine Claire and Jamie [10]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Book 3: Voyager, Diana Gabaldon, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6213631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsterclaire/pseuds/spinsterclaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After fighting with Frank, Claire goes to a nearby church for a moment of peace. On her way home, she runs into a certain red-haired Scotsman...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Far and Distant Places

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Remember that awful day Claire had when Bree was still a baby? The one when she was fighting with broken heating and then stormed out when Frank was surprised that she wasn't ready to play the perfect, dolled up hostess for his friends? Imagine that instead of coming home with Frank after spending some time in the chapel Claire unexpectedly bumps right into Jamie on the street.
> 
> This fic is set in the same verse as "Reaching Through the Veil" where Jamie's "ghost" visits Claire in the 20th century.

For hours I had knelt in darkness, feeling my desolation give way to the peace of solitude. Frank and I had fought at home – a daily occurrence nowadays, with contempt and resentment like extra parties in our marriage – and I had come to the church in search of escape. Escape from Frank’s snarling reproach. Escape from my daughter’s cries. But most of all, I craved escape from the loneliness that afflicted me, and the knowledge of where I was and who I had lost.

Loneliness, of course, flourishes in quiet, but somehow the hard slate tiles provided the solace that I sought. My temples no longer pounded and my heart had given up its angered drumbeat, abated by the outstretched arms of Christ. He hung above me, absolving my sins and giving me strength where I was weak.

The church bells rang three solemn chimes, and I did the sign of the cross. With one last look at the Blessed Sacrament, I nodded to the shadowed figure waiting in the narthex. He began his own holy vigilance then, assuming my place as lone guardian over the monstrance.

Thinking of what awaited me, I took heavy, reluctant steps towards home. My sense of calm vanished in the Boston night, and my bones felt more chilled than ever. Visions of Frank materialized in the shadows, and I saw him as he had been three hours before: standing reproachful in the doorway, lamenting my inability to manage simple household tasks. I had burned the roast, dirtied the kitchen, and generally failed to make our home suitable for his guests. The scorn in his eyes had spurred me to hysteria, thrusting a screaming Bree into his arms and running towards the car without a mind for wifely responsibilities. Roasts and kitchens and dinner parties be damned.

I dreaded facing his ire – and my daughter’s accusing eyes. Rare was the night I did not cradle Bree to sleep, feeling the soft and warm weight of her in my arms.

Fleetingly, I considered turning around and sleeping on one of the church pews. Its cold surface would be warmer than the bed at home. Side by side, Frank and I would lay there like corpses, bound only by the hapless fate that kept us together.

“I ken I’d find ye here, lass.”

I stopped, jolted by this interruption of my thoughts. Seeing no one, I continued on my way. The sound followed me, floating gummous through the night.

“Sassenach,” it spoke again. This time I shrieked, for I saw the red-haired man sprawled casually on the bench. “Don’t ye know better than to ignore an impatient Scot?”

I smiled despite the fear still tip-toeing down my spine. There was no cause for worry, though – it was Jamie, not some faceless stranger. I breathed for the first time in weeks, a deep and restorative inhale that filled the hollowed bits of me.

“Don’t you know not to scare a woman walking alone at night?” I retorted, laughter in my voice. “Jamie, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“A fine thing if I did,” he said, leaning forwards to take my hand, “for sometimes I wonder if yer still alive in there, _mo_ _ghràidh_. Ye dinna seem much yerself these days.”

Startled by the concern in his eyes, I felt myself soften. For months, I had kept sorrow at arm’s length, wearing a mask of steely composure. Now though, I let my tears fall freely.

Frank would cower in the face of my distress, accustomed only to the poised and sharp-witted woman of my youth. He did not know the Claire Beauchamp of war, who had fought and persevered out of sheer necessity. But Jamie knew both women, and Jamie had never minded my tears. Beneath his gaze, I was stripped of my armor – all false pretences burned to ash – and presented bare-boned and backed like a newborn.

For the first time in weeks, I felt _known_.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Jamie reached out to dry my cheeks. His fingertips were warm, though the sensation of skin against skin ebbed and flowed in turns. Once more, I remembered the delicateness of our situation: me, rooted firmly in the 20th century; Jamie, existing in the strange half-world between Now and Then. I made to cup his face, but it flickered like a flame. My hand fell traitorously to the bench, striking wood with a harsh finality.

“ _A Dhia_ ,” Jamie grumbled. Seeking balance between past and present, he clung to the bench with a white-knuckled grasp. His muscles tightened with the strain, bulging and limned in moonbeam. But after a moment’s struggle, he seemed as organic as the trees behind us and finally relaxed his shoulders.

“There,” he sighed, “I dinna think I’ll be troubled ‘til morning.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked again.

Usually our meetings took place in more discreet locations. Supply closets at the hospital, alcoves and hideaways – anywhere permitting privacy. But outdoors, we were vulnerable to prying eyes, and so I scanned the perimeter for onlookers.

Not that there would be much to see, I supposed. Should someone care to watch, they’d find only me, sitting alone and making small, ludicrous conversation with myself.

“D’ye mean to say you dinna want me?”

“Of course not,” I told him, “I always want you.”

A steadied apparition now, Jamie pressed his lips to mine. There was something faintly smoky on his tongue, and like a mother’s cooking, it tasted of home. I leaned into him, wanting to swallow it whole.

“Well, I’m happy to hear it, Sassenach. Not a day goes by where I dinna want ye lying bonnie in my bed.”

At the mention of our bed, my body tingled with yearning.

We had tested the limits of sensation, reaching far into and beyond the breach to understand the extent of our separation. At times, Jamie seemed to stand miles away. At others, only inches.

But we had yet to share a bed, fearful of what that discovery – whether successful or failing – might bring. Rather, we kept to these intimate but chaste moments, enjoying simple touches whenever we could. Jamie’s presence was never guaranteed, but I longed for these meetings like I dreaded his goodbye: wholly and completely.

“How long have you been here?”

“ _Ach_ ,” Jamie said, waving time away. “Not too long. I was here yesterday, but I couldna get a grip on myself to come see you.”

His words rang like an apology. I scooted closer, hoping the proximity might make up for the distance of days past.

“I wanted to be sure, ye ken? I didna want to come to ye and have to leave like – ”

I silenced him, shunting away the memory of our first encounter. He had visited me in Brianna’s nursey once, a painfully brief reunion and only a few words shared between us.

“You’re here now,” I whispered. “That’s all that matters. Tell me,” I said, wanting to distract him, “what exactly does a ghost do in his free time? Terrorize the locals?”

“Nay, Sassenach,” he teased, “I save that just for Frank. I dinna like the way the man speaks to ye sometimes…”

I recalled the results of his ghostly trickery and huffed in frustration.

“Yes, I _noticed_ that. As much as I appreciate the defense of my honor…will you stop with the bloody toothbrushes? I’ve had to buy at least six in the past month! You’re driving _me_ insane.”

Jamie beamed at this confirmation of his success, quite pleased that he’d thwarted the well-kept Frank Randall's hygienic upkeep.

“You’ve always been a wee drafty in the heid, Sassenach. But if Frank willna speak respect to ye, then he deserves to clean his mouth wi’ the same filth, I say! And besides, it keeps you from kissing him, no?”

I thought of the miscreant toothbrushes in our toilet bowl, litterbox, and laundry basket…No, a soiled toothbrush was not exactly an invitation for intimacy.

“Not as though he ever _wants_ to kiss me…” I said.

I was surprised by the hurt in my voice. My marriage with Frank was strained, yes, and irrevocably damaged by the secrets we kept. But there were still the occasional moments of tenderness between us, small echoes of the relationship we’d had before my disappearance and subsequent return. And as much as I knew Jamie to be my soul mate, there were parts of me that still longed for the genial, kind-hearted scholar of my past. I had thought him my soul mate too, once.

“A fool,” Jamie cursed, “But all the more for me.”

“I’m always yours, Jamie. You know that.”

I closed my hand into a fist, fingers touching the raised J at the base of my thumb. Jamie’s own hand was marked in the same way, a bodily reminder of the ways in which he was bound to me and I to him. For while Frank’s wedding band still hugged my left finger, it was Jamie who held my heart and soul, a possession greater than court documents and golden jewelry. His grasp on me was something metaphysical – and beyond the limitations of earthly ceremony.

“I do know that, my own,” Jamie whispered. He sat up straighter then, eyes alight. “And I ken many other things too – things I’ve learned during the days I canna be wi’ ye.”

“Days like yesterday?”

“Aye, like yesterday. And the days before that, too. When the world doesna ken yer watching, it isna shy about showing you the truth.”

“What sorts of things have you learned then, Confucius?”

“That depends – how much time d’ye have, Sassenach?”

I waved my hand to imitate his earlier nonchalance. In Jamie’s arms, I would ignore the waning light of the stars.  Should trouble arise with Bree, Frank would be there. My absence might be noted but not sorely needed – Frank was just as capable as he was loving towards his illegitimate child.

I felt comforted, too, by the knowledge that I would be there in the morning. Perhaps I’d whisper of this night to Brianna, and tell her stories of her father while she nursed.

“For you?” I said. “The rest of forever.” I melted bonelessly into the crook of his arm, limbs melting into limbs. He pulled me close and began his story.

“I’ve learned three things, Sassenach, during my time alone…”

“All that time and only three? Seems a shame.” I said, rather unimpressed. The days between our meetings seemed to drag, and I often wondered if “twenty-four hours” was a grievous underestimation. It sure seemed like it.

“Maybe,” he said, “but they’re verra important things – none to be so dismissive about.”

“That so? Please, do share your wisdom.”

He laughed softly.

“If ye quit interrupting me, I just might.”

Chastened, I apologized and hummed a vow of silence into his shoulder.

“Dinna fash, Sassenach,” he said, “I ken how ye feel – so many things ye want to say and never the time to say them. Dinna be quiet on my behalf, for I long to hear yer voice as I long to tell ye every thought I’ve ever had.”

“I learned the first lesson from walking,” he began. He pointed to his feet then, two large boulders next to my smaller ones. The image of our strides – his long; mine rushing to keep pace – came to mind, marching side by side. To battle, to victory, to defeat.

“There isna much a man can do when the world doesna see or hear him. So I walked from Salem to Lexington to pass the time. Then here and down to Brockton too.”

“Jamie!” I cried, “You’ve practically walked the entire Bay coastline!”

“I have,” he confirmed, pride suffusing his voice.

I supposed, in the scheme of things, this journey paled in comparison to treks across mountains, rivers, and other inhospitable geography. During the three years of our marriage alone, I wagered we had traveled upwards of ten thousand miles.

“And that great a distance, Sassenach? Weel – ye see a lot of faces.”

“I’ll say. All the ones worth seeing, at least. Stumble across anyone famous?”

He shook his head.

“Though I did think as I’d spotted Charles Stuart once…but then I remembered he was long dead by now.”

Jamie’s face darkened with the memory of the Bonnie Prince.  Little wonder. It was by some fault of that foolish and wayward prince that had led Scotland to its destruction – and our separation.

I squeezed Jamie’s hand, urging him to go on and leave the past behind. One thing _I_ had learned during our time apart: moving forward was essential for survival. To look back was to be lost forever.

“But that’s precisely my first lesson, Sassenach,” Jamie continued, voice regaining its cheerfulness. “I’ve seen thousands of faces – old and young, ugly and handsome. But there are no faces worth seeing except yours, _mo chridhe_.”

His fingers traced the arch of my eyebrows and grazed the tips of my lashes. “They say God made us in his image, but I dinna think that’s so. He made ye from my soul – and me from yours. There isna a face in all the world I cherish more.”

He looked away, towards the glimmering lights of the city. It would be morning soon, and Boston’s early-risers would be preparing for the day ahead. With the moon hanging shyly in the sky, I didn’t think we could deny Time much longer.

“Now, the second lesson…I learned that one after a few nips of whisky.”

“ _Whisky_?” I balked. “Ghosts get drunk, do they?”

“Of course!” he retorted. “Ye walk 100 miles every day, a man ought to have a wee dram for his efforts. And besides,” he whispered confidentially, “I dinna think God minds the drinking overmuch. His son could turn water to wine, after all – and I dinna think he was daft enough to waste such a talent.”

I laughed at his logic. “What sorts of Bible stories did Father Bain _teach_ you, Jamie?”

“None of that sort, to be sure. In fact, the old Devil likely just turned in his grave hearin’ me say such heresy. But whether or not the Lord takes his share o’ wine and spirits, the stuff does make ye rather reflective. Ye start thinking of yer life – how it was and how it wasn’t.”

“And what did the Fates of whisky reveal to you? Wait –” I said, holding up a finger, “don’t tell me you’ve begun to regret marrying me _now_. Is my charming face not enough?”

I was merely teasing, but a part of me did sometimes wonder. Had I not come into his life in 1743, what pain could he have been spared?

“Yer good at guessing games, Sassenach,” he replied, tapping my nose, “but yer wrong there. Ye may sometimes cause me grief, but I couldna help marrying ye if I tried. I dinna ken if the Hindus have the right of it, but if I’ve other lives to come, I’ll find ye in every one of them.”

“No, I was drunk and sitting by my lonesome at the pub. I was there all day, listening to people tell their stories….Mind, the only thing drunk folk like more than booze is the sound of their own voice.”

I nodded, thinking of the times I’d gone for drinks with my friend, Joe Abernathy. One night in particular, we’d been rather the worse for wear. Under the influence of a considerable amount of Guinness, we had shared some of our deepest secrets. Self-confidence, self-pity – all the secret feelings one feels about themselves – come to the surface after one or two pints. Luckily, Joe was a kind man. Whether out of deference to my feelings or the effects of alcohol, he never mentioned what I had said. Instead, our silent and mutual understanding forged a lasting friendship between us.

“Anyways, I heard them talk of their childhoods, their fathers and mothers. It was an interesting thing, to see which parts they mentioned and which parts they didna think worthy of much time. One man spoke of the war for nigh on two hours while another brushed it away wi’ a single sentence.”

“And so I began to think of my own life, and how I might describe it to someone else. What would I talk about the most? What would I leave out?”

“An awful lot to sift through,” I said, “I can’t imagine many people can compete with the excitement of outlawry and rebellion. Not these days, at least.”

I had begun to realize this myself in recent months. The joy of hot showers and electricity had faded quickly in the mundane proceedings of 20th century life. Strange as it was, I often missed the more hands-on and primitive existence I’d led two-hundred years before. My present posed its own challenges, of course, but it was demanding in a different way.

“You’re probably right, Sassenach. I’ve lived through many things, some bad and many more good. But if I were to put my story in a book, there’d be nothing much worth writing about that doesna have you in it.” He sighed, and wrapped his arm tighter around me. “I lived twenty-two years before ye came into that cabin and set my shoulder straight…But, Claire, I dinna think I breathed until that moment, when ye first put your hands on me.”

“And so that’s the second lesson I learned: I may be a man, but I’m only a great one when I’m wi’ you.”

I studied his face, noticing the lines that had not been there three years ago. Etchings of his failures and of his triumphs – of his greatness. I imagined my own eyes were webbed similarly, older but wiser than their years.

“I suppose I’ve lived through a hell of a lot, too,” I whispered. “Traveling with Uncle Lamb, for one. A world war for another…and Frank. But you’re my legacy, Jamie. You and Bree.”

“I hope I’ve done ye proud, Sassenach – and continue to do so, too. For I’ve no plan of leaving you anytime soon.”

“Good,” I replied, “because if you did, I wouldn’t hear the third thing you learned. And I quite like hearing how much you love me, Jamie. Indulge me some more.”

“Flattery is the key to your heart, aye? I’ll keep that in mind for when yer not so willing to listen to me…” I butted him lightly with my head. He held me there against him, wrapping an errant curl around his finger.

“The last lesson took a fair bit of time to learn. It wasna something I could come to wi’out some help.”

He pointed to the city sprawled in front of us, now backlit against the growing sunrise. I followed the path of his index finger but couldn’t discern the object of its search among the cluster of tall, stone buildings.

“The library,” he explained at last. “A fine place to pass the time. One day, I heard a man speaking a language I didna recognize, and so I thought I might try to learn it myself. You remember I’ve a way with languages?”

“I do,” I said. “Very impressive, your linguistic talents.”

“Aye, I _am_ good with my tongue, aren’t I, Sassenach?” He winked in that awkward, Fraser way of his, and I felt my stomach flutter in remembrance. His breath hot against me, mouth writing poetry at the apex of my pleasure.

“Well, I never did figure out just what language he was speaking – but I did learn a few others in the meantime. I stayed at the library from dusk ‘til dawn.”

“You learned _multiple_ languages? Jamie, you can’t be serious! That – that takes _years_!”     This assertion came from experience and not a little jealousy. As languages were not my area of expertise, I had never gotten a knack for speaking the Scottish Gaelic. Harnessing the globules of spit necessary for its warbled dialect, I would literally choke on my words. It was a source of amusement for Jamie and his Highland friends, excluded as I then was from the finer details of their conversations. But it didn’t take fluency to recognize a bawdy joke when I heard one.

“While I’m offended by your lack of faith in my abilities, Sassenach…yer right. I didna become fluent in any of them – just learned the words most useful to a man.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I wouldna expect anything less.” He cleared his throat. “‘ _Ana behibek.’ ‘Mahal kita.’_ ‘ _Ich liebe dich_.’”

“ _‘Ich liebe dich’_? Isn’t that – ”

“‘I love you’ in German? Aye, it is. And so are the others – in Arabic and Filipino.”

He lifted my chin and looked deep into my eyes. I did not need words to understand the extent of his affection, but they still cut me deeply, like a lightning bolt in a quiet, stormy sky. I glowed and warmed with the knowledge of it.

“I canna be wi’ you all the time, _mo nighean donn_. And I can never know where or when I may see you again…” He swallowed, and I knew he was trying to keep the steadiness in his voice. I rested a forgiving palm against his cheek, granting the permission to shatter and weep in my arms without shame. He trembled beneath my touch, and the first tears began to drop as he spoke.

“But wherever you are and wherever I may be, I want to be able to tell ye that my heart is yours – in every corner of the world.”

Algeria or Egypt, the Philippines, and Germany. Here, there or anywhere…I would know.

“I love you,” I whispered back and hoped it would echo in those far and distant places, too.

We both sat in silence then, holding each other’s bodies and welcoming our tears. Jamie drew my head to lay upon his lap, and I rested there comfortably, watching as the sun climbed above the Custom House clock. The day bloomed to life – purring engines and ringing telephones – but we basked peacefully in the pastel light, figures in a Monet.

Jamie ran his fingers through my hair, and the feeling of his sure, gentle hands against my skull lulled me towards sleep. Not wanting to sacrifice our moments together, I blinked away the fatigue. But eventually I drifted into the cool embrace of dreams, where time lay suspended and immobile.

“Dinna fight it, Sassenach,” Jamie soothed, “I’ll come back for ye, always.”

And as the purrs and rings began to fade, one sound still reached me through the haze of my half-consciousness.

_Je t’aime._

_Ti amo._

_Te quiero._

_Tha gaeol agam ort._

I love you.


End file.
